


you've seen the butcher

by sharkattax



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-30
Updated: 2012-12-29
Packaged: 2017-11-15 07:59:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/524979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sharkattax/pseuds/sharkattax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>in which stiles has boundaries and derek is clueless.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this might take a little while to get going, so bear with me, kiddies. <3.

“I can’t do this any more. I, yeah. Nope. I’m out. I’m done.” Derek’s hands were hot and heavy on his hips, thumbs tucked under his waistband. “I’m sorry. I mean, I’m not sorry, it’s not. I just. I. Can’t.” Stiles writhed uncomfortably, trying to crawl out from under Derek. The sheets were too itchy and his hoodie was too hot and everything felt too tight, face prickling, heart kicking arrhythmically out of his ribcage. “Derek. _Derek_ , I need. I can’t. _Breathe_.” He crawled into a vague, stifled impression of a recovery position and took as deep a breath as his punching-bag lungs would allow. 

 

“Oh no, no you don’t. Get back here. Come back.” 

 

(Pleasant bedside manner had never been Derek’s strong suit.)

 

“You get back here. I’ll give you the Bite if you don’t. _Stiles_. I’ll fucking _bite you_ if you don’t pay attention to me now.” 

“Then. _Fucking_. Bite me. I..... _fuck_. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuckf _uckfuck-_ ”

“Better. Come on.”

 

Derek cradled the back of Stiles’ head in one huge hand, nails slowly sharpening into claws. He hated to threaten the kid like this; there were times when he really, _really_ deserved the teeth and the nails and the growling, the little hyperactive dipshit asshole, but this clearly wasn’t one of those times. 

 

“Holy god. Get off me. Not helping. With the. The breathing thing.” Derek rolled off to one side, propped up on one elbow. Stiles retched and punched the mattress. “Jesus.” He coughed hard to clear his throat and scrubbed at his face with his hoodie sleeve. “Jesus, fuck, shit, God.” Derek was staring at him, passive but unblinking. “Ugh. Hate that. I’m not. I’m not embarrassed you saw that. Don’t, like. Think I feel ashamed. I don’t.” Stiles wiped his eyes furiously. “I don’t feel bad.”

“All right.” 

“Fuck off,” and then, “wait, don’t.” 

“ _All right_.” Derek rolled his eyes, tongued one of his sharper teeth impatiently. “You want me to sleep on the floor or something?”

“Yes. No. I.... no. You can stay. Fuck.” His fingers twitched on his knees. “Please?”

“Are you asthmatic too? Is that why you’re friends with Scott? It’s like a club, right?”

“Oh, my God. _No_. I’m trying not to have a panic attack, idiot.”

“Just take the thing off, then.”

“What?”

“The thing.” Derek gestured at Stiles’ belly with an awkward handwave. “The.... _smelly thing_. You never take it off.”

“And, yeah. Now I’m back to having a panic attack. Awesome.”

“What are you even talking about? I don’t- _Stiles_.” He frowned and slapped the boy a little harder than maybe he should’ve, but it worked on snapping him out of his hysteria. Stiles stared at him, glossy-eyed and open-mouthed and flushed all over. “I don’t know what it is. I just know you don’t wash it much. Like shoes or something.”

“It’s not shoes.” 

“ _Really_.”

 

Stiles crawled to the end of his bed and rolled off the end with a dull thump. He fought with his hoodie, tangled up in the drawstrings and the sleeves like a swaddled baby. Finally, he freed himself and took a deep, terrible breath, feet sliding and twitching against the carpet. His t-shirt was hitched right up to his shoulder-blades, caught on the edge of the bedframe.  

“Stiles.”

“Fuck off! Don’t _look_.”

“Jesus, I’m not looking.” Derek made a point of staring at the ceiling with a sneer. “I don’t know-”

“No, you don’t! _God_.” There was the sound of scratchy fumbling and a heavy sigh. Stiles looked over the edge of the blanket, shoulders hunched up and arms folded tightly across his chest, at Derek, who was pointedly ignoring him. “You don’t know anything.” He bit his lip. Derek scratched his jaw idly. “Don’t say anything.”

“About what? I don’t- .... _oh_.”

 

Stiles stood out of the lamplight, but Derek could still see him just fine. He kept his head bowed, staring watery-eyed and trembling at his feet, fingers aching for something to hold onto; body screaming for him to run, do something, _do anything_. Derek slipped forward, and cupped a small, pale breast in his hand. Stiles flinched.

“Hey. I’m not gonna hurt-”

“ _Not_ the issue here, Derek.”

“But I won’t.” He grazed his thumb idly over the fat pink nipple pressed against the web of his hand; squat and soft, the colour of cats’ tongues. 

“Don’t... it’s not. I mean. _Fuck_.” He took a step back, forearms clamped to his chest again. “Don’t you fucking dare think of me like that. I’ll put a fucking wolfsbane bullet in your _head_. I swear to God.”

“Like a g-”

“ _Shut the fuck up, Derek_!” Derek could feel the rage steaming through his pores, a foul stink that made him feel nauseous. “No, I need you to go. You need to leave. Get out.”

“Stiles-”

“ _Get out_!”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which fried chicken heals all wounds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah so i accidentally didn't write anything for ages whoops

The shower was too hot and he was probably taking too long, but Stiles needed to scrub every inch of himself clean, as if it’d wash Derek off his skin. He turned off the faucet and sat in the basin, red-raw and flushed pink and full of rage. 

“Stiles?” There was a soft knock at the door. “You alright in there, son?”

 

He took a deep breath, steadied his nerve.

 

“Yeah, I’m fine! Lost track of time! Uh, pondering! You know!” 

“Don’t need to know the details, kid. So long as you’re okay. I brought dinner home.”

“I’m not... wait, forget it. Thanks. I’ll be out in a sec.”

 

Too tired to deal with a binder - _fucking ‘smelly thing’, fuck Derek_ \- Stiles settled for too many oversized clothes, bundled up in a mountain of sweats as he rubbed his bristly hair dry, and tumbled downstairs in a graceless heap; a short tempered avalanche of cottony fleece. (In fairness, Stiles had never quite grasped a natural or elegant manner of using the stairs.) The Sheriff sat at the dining table, unpacking boxes and cups around piles of casework.

“I know, I’m supposed to be eating _healthy_. But it’s Friday night. That’s a hall pass.” He paused, lips pursing. “How come you’re still here? You’re never home on a Friday.”

“Didn’t feel like hanging out tonight.” Stiles pulled a carton of fries toward himself.

“Giving Scott some, uh, personal time with Allison? That’s very kind of you.”

“Hey, I have more friends than Scott,” he grunted through a mouthful of potato. “How’s work?”

“Quieter without all the insane animal attacks, I’ll tell you that. Must’ve been something in the water.”

“Yeah, water.” Stiles pushed back in his chair, grabbing a Coke and a greasy box of fried chicken. “Uh, I’m gonna eat in my room, thanks for the food.”

“Oh, no. I know that look. Sit back down.” (The gesture of pointing at the chair may have felt a little more serious if it hadn’t been executed with a plastic fork.)

“Dad, I-”

“Stiles.”

“I-”

“ _Stiles_. Come on, sit down. Talk to me.” His father stole a french-fry from his carton. “Did something happen at school?”

“No.” Stiles sucked at his Coke miserably. “Nothing ever happens at school. Like, ever.”

“Is it a girl?”

“No.”

“Is it a boy...?”

“No! God, can we stop playing twenty questions, please?” He chewed his straw impatiently, kicking the legs of his chair. “I’m fine. Everything’s fine. I. I mean,” scrubbing the back of his neck, “I just. Had a bad day. With, you know.”

“Hell.” His father pinched the bridge of his nose. “Anything I can do?” 

“Nope. But, uh, thanks. Really. I appreciate it.” He gave his dad a wan smile and picked at the crispy coating on his chicken. 

 

“I don’t mean to sound, like, ungrateful or whatever-”

“Ungrateful? _Stiles_. You’re my kid. It’s not a chore for me to- to be a good _parent_.” He frowned and scuffed back out of his chair (wiping his hands on his pants to rid them of worry and spicy grease) and put his palms flush against Stiles’ shoulders. His wife’s eyes had been just as dark as his child’s and he was glad for it; they didn’t need another pair as blue and tired as his own in their house. He had a photograph tucked away in his office, mother and child, heads shorn; Stiles had always been small, and looked like a doll fashioned in his mother’s weary likeness. The sixteen year old Stiles sitting at the table was tired from growing up too fast and having a hundred things on his mind, tired of pills and T-shots and werewolves and _never enough sleep_. 

“I’m... hey, listen, it’s fine. I’m just tired, and stuff. I love you, I’m gonna have an early night. Dad? I’ll be okay.” He forced the corners of his mouth higher, to be that little bit more convincing, arms folded tight about his chest. “Don’t worry about it. Me. Any of it, it’s fine, it’ll be fine. Promise.” 

 

(For all that his father was the Sheriff, he could break a rule or two in his own house; and a finger or two of whiskey would help them both off to sleep.)

 

He dreamt about fucking Derek in hard and horrible ways, dreamt of the Bite and blood and spit and woke up drenched in sweat; too hot in his clothes, tight-sick in his stomach, toes curled. Thought about the way his clit stuck up like a tiny angry prick when he was painfully turned on. Thought about Derek sucking him off, dissolved like a sunspot under tangled sheets. He headbutted back into his pillow and sighed. Jacking off and avoiding doing homework were things normal kids did on the weekend; Stiles, on the other hand, spent his time avoiding being killed. 

 

He pulled the pillow over his head. Werewolves and hunters and magic and _Derek_ could wait. 

 

He was going to have a _day off_. 


End file.
